Page 7 of Devoted in Death

With the scene secured, and no witness—so far—to interview as the body had been discovered by beat droids, she climbed into her car. And with unspeakable relief, ordered the heat on full.

With even more unspeakable relief, she pulled off the snowflake hat.

“Aw. It looks cute on you.”

“If I wanted to look cute, I wouldn’t be a cop.” She forked her fingers through her short, shaggy brown hair. “Address, Peabody.”

“West Seventy-first between Amsterdam and Columbus.”

“A long way from where he ended up.” Needles pricked along her fingers as they thawed out.

One of the things she’d figured out how to operate in the fully loaded, purposely nondescript vehicle her husband had designed for her was coffee from the onboard AutoChef.

And right that minute, she thought she might kill for real coffee.

“Computer, engage AutoChef,” Eve began.

“Yippee!”

“Shut up, Peabody, or you won’t get any.”

AutoChef engaged. What would you like, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve?

“One coffee black, one coffee regular, both in go-cups.”

One moment, please. Is front-seat delivery desired?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s desired.”

“I didn’t know it did that,” Peabody piped up. “I thought it was just backseat— Whoa!”

Order complete, the computer announced as two go-cups slid out from under the dash.

“That is totally iced.”

“It better not be iced.” Eve snagged the go-cup with the black top, leaving the cream-colored top for Peabody.

It was hot and strong and perfect.

“I love this ride,” Peabody stated, cuddling her coffee.

“Don’t get used to the coffee service. Maybe the next time it’s shy of five a.m., minus three with a windchill of you don’t fucking want to know, we’ll do it again. Otherwise, forget it.”

Peabody only smiled, took the first glorious sip. “I love this ride,” she repeated.

Eve concluded playing a big, fat violin paid pretty well. Dorian Kuper had lived in a two-level apartment in a meticulously rehabbed building—one that had survived the Urban Wars. It stood, bright white brick and long sheets of glass gleaming, in a tony area of the Upper West Side.

When the doorman, wearing a classic black topcoat over his livery, greeted her by rank instead of snooty insults on the bland appearance of the DLE she drove, she knew Roarke owned the building. Obviously Doorman Frank had gotten the memo.

“How can I help you today, Lieutenant?”

“We need access to Dorian Kuper’s apartment.”

His round, almost cherubic face fell. “I was afraid of that. Please, come inside, out of the wind. I heard Mr. Kuper was missing. I guess you found him, and I guess it’s not good.”

She stepped inside, into warmth and white marble veined with gray, into the strangely spicy scent of whatever the masses of bold flowers cast off from their silver urn on the central table.

“We found him. It’s not good,” she confirmed.

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